I just met a soldier who was in the IDF over the summer. He served in Hebron and Beit Ummar, places I frequented. I walked past a few times in an effort to remember where I knew that face. The olive drab Hebrew insignia on his shirt gave it away.
I’m struggling to remember him. Sifting through countless photographs, perusing my memories. But it’s so difficult to remember. The easiest way to tell soldiers apart was their guns. Some carried an M16, others wielded an M4 carbine. Some had double magazines taped together; optic sights; underbelly grenade launchers. Almost all had that self-assured sly smirk.
Of course my memory doesn’t work very well. I mostly remember a mass of soldiers, blurred together. The stench of sweat-stained clothes and helmets. Rough hands on my body. An occasional punch to the kidneys.
What I do remember, unmistakably, is the uncontrollable rage that I felt every day, every hour, every second, living in the West Bank. Not being treated as a person, not ever. The occupation isn’t just a few soldiers on patrol. It manifests itself in every aspect of one’s life. Signs dictating which roads are for Jews only; checkpoints that can be avoided by walking a few miles around (clearly the route a suicide bomber would take—only the weak and infirm are forced to wait endlessly for their documents to be scrutinized at a kiosk); the fear when a settler or soldier passes by; HAVING NO WEIGHT, NO HUMANITY AT ALL.
Just a few months ago that person had all the power. With a simple point of his finger he could have my passport taken, have me beaten, or have my friends dragged away, never to be seen again. Or he could do it himself. He could shift his M16 to his hip, shove me to the ground, and stuff his boot on my neck. I was helpless, but that’s nothing compared to the power he had over other Palestinians. He could pull out a pistol and execute some grocery worker in broad daylight without even a reprimand from Tel Aviv. I’m glad I finally left that fucking hellhole, but my Palestinian brothers and sisters can never leave.
Now that soldier and I are equals. We attend the same university. He can’t treat any student like that, not even if he or she is Palestinian. I’ve been dreaming about what this would be like for weeks. Standing there, my entire body was just frozen with fury.
My memory’s pretty shaky, but I’m pretty sure I was in Palestine. I’m pretty sure what I remember witnessing really did happen. But standing there was so surreal. Meeting the torturer in different circumstances. Maybe now I have the power. The liberty to speak out without getting a fist in the gut.
Anyway, we got to talking and soon enough the real issues came up. I asked him how he felt about beating up kids and old ladies (which I witnessed his squad doing). The response: ‘I was just doing my job. Look, I’m not really into politics. All that’s a part of my past life.’
Is murder and torture something you can really walk away from and not look back?
Is murder and torture something you can really walk away from and not look back?
